


The Gravest of Miracles

by RurouniHime



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Friends to Lovers, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, Pining, Politics, Road Trips, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-23
Updated: 2011-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-21 16:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/227295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there was one thing Arthur Pendragon was never without, it was a mood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Season 1.

If there was one thing Arthur Pendragon was never without, it was a mood. He might not have his chain mail on every time he needed it— such as when a grief-stricken witch lobbed a dagger in the direction of his chest— or two polished boots from the same pair in time for an ambassadorial dinner— Merlin was still sorry about that one… but Arthur never failed to have a formidable opinion regarding his own state of being. And there was a difference between Arthur’s moods and, say, a layman’s; Merlin had seen many of them. He prided himself on being able to recall just about all of them, so when Arthur began repeating them— with no less stellar of an impact, mind— Merlin thought he’d seen them all.

He should have learned by then not to underestimate his prince, but it seemed there were several lessons that Merlin refused to wrap his mind around, as Gaius was so fond of reminding him. The last month had been witness to a number of strange temperaments that had Merlin frowning up at his ceiling instead of sleeping at night, trying to ascertain if there was something wrong that he could put right.

Not all the moods were bad, obviously. Arthur was a multi-talented fellow and never prone to classifying himself in a singular manner. But many of the latest tempers appeared to be rather destructive to Merlin’s studied eye, and he found that he was very glad of the existence of swords and practice effigies on this day in particular, when he stood shivering, not just from the cold, watching Arthur hack the daylights out of an already mangled straw man. The dawn of the week brought Arthur onto the still-dewed grasses before any right-thinking person who wasn’t a castle cook or sentry would ever have forced himself out of bed. Merlin blinked the heaviness of night away as he stared, watching his sometime-confidant blur in and out of sleepy non-focus. The red of Arthur’s shirt, which Merlin knew to be too thin for the fall morning, held stark court against the dark grass beyond, twisting as Arthur twisted, lining his muscles and snapping back as he swung the sword down, up, and over to cleave a deep, crunching furrow into one beleaguered straw shoulder. Bits of straw exploded outward and fluttered feebly toward the ground. Someone with a macabre sense of humour had painted a gleeful face on the effigy, and it grinned lopsidedly as Arthur’s sword nearly swept the head straight from its shoulders.

It was the sound that finally sharpened Merlin’s attention; not the crick and groan of the dummy’s wooden post, but the almost injured grunt that slipped from Arthur’s throat as his sword dropped. Arthur staggered uncharacteristically sideways, barely catching himself with one hand on the ground, and Merlin’s heart sped as he realised he really had no idea how long Arthur had been out here. And this, when a week prior, Arthur had fallen prey to a malady that left him confined to his bed, feverish and muddled and sore, for longer than Merlin was strictly comfortable with.

Before he knew it, he was jogging towards the practice lawn. It hadn’t quite entered his mind that the prince could have hurt himself, but the thought was on its way.

“Arthur,” he called. Arthur jerked at the sound of his hail, eyes narrowed into two bright pins of awareness. He turned, his hand tightening visibly around the hilt of his sword. Exhaustion had taken up residence in his body long ago and was rapidly morphing into a strong, achy weariness that crept across Arthur’s frame even as Merlin approached. He’d never seen it before, not to this degree. Hints, perhaps. Merlin slowed, uncertain, and took in the sight of his master— his friend.

Arthur was wearing the clothing Merlin had set out for him the day before, implying that he hadn’t even taken it off to sleep. If he’d slept. The shirt was indeed a thin one, long-sleeved and meant to be worn underneath a sturdier mantle. The loose tails billowed slightly at Arthur’s hips as the wind worried the fabric. He’d at least thought to keep the thick hide breeches on rather than any lighter indoor wear. Not so for the state of his tunic. The laces dangled uselessly against Arthur’s heaving chest, leaving the pale skin there prey for the chilly air.

Arthur stared at Merlin, and Merlin would have needed a spell to discover what the other man was thinking; there was nothing of it on his face. Just something that looked shocked, and a little bit hunted. But so, so tired. It was that lilt that led Merlin forward, tugging at the buckles of his cloak. It _was_ a cold morning; Merlin felt the bite through his coat as he swept the cloak off, like a niggling nettle sting that he could manage to forget for a little while, at least. If it meant getting Camelot’s crown prince covered in something warm before the frost on the castle walls began to crawl over his skin and set up shop, the chill would be gladly born.

Arthur’s face was flushed with exertion. It wasn’t until Merlin was close enough to actually touch Arthur that he saw that the prince’s lips were bluish. “Ar—”

Arthur stepped back very quickly and Merlin stopped, cloak raised between them. It was almost a flinch, a flinch away from him, and Arthur didn’t flinch away from anyone, least of all Merlin. There had been flinching towards Merlin, but this was a first.

“Arthur,” he tried again, his voice soft with surprise. Arthur’s eyes skidded over him as he stepped closer. His free hand hung limply, the palm dirtied with black mud. The sword was still clutched in his other hand, and Merlin looked down at it, noting the tense white skin at Arthur’s knuckles. A reasonable unease slid home in his chest.

One thing at a time. Merlin made smooth, unthreatening work of swinging the cloak up and around Arthur’s shoulders, pulling it down to cover what bare skin he could and fastening it at the prince’s throat. Arthur stood absolutely still while he did it. Merlin wasn’t sure if he was being stared at. He had the suspicion he was not. He eased one hand around the lower part of the sword’s hilt, brushing Arthur’s hand as he did so. Arthur’s fingers clenched, and then the man gave a sharp sigh and his grip fell away. Merlin took the sword and leaned it against the tattered practice dummy. And then he managed the nerve to look Arthur in the eye.

He meant to ask what was wrong, if Arthur was hurt, how long he’d been in the cold without Merlin, why he wasn’t wearing sane apparel so soon after he’d been ill. But the strange hollows in Arthur’s eyes showed him that the answers were not there, and the only question that came out was, “What is it?”

Arthur’s gaze dropped. His shoulder shrugged upward and he shifted his weight restlessly, more alive than he’d looked since bashing the dummy that final time. Merlin blinked at the movement, reaching out to steady Arthur. When his hand touched down on a cloaked arm, Arthur stilled again, and the stone-cold ache settled once more.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Arthur murmured.

Merlin nodded once, then again. “Come on, let’s get you something hot to drink. All right?”

Arthur didn’t answer. He walked slowly alongside Merlin toward the castle, the rising sun just beginning to set fire to the darkened hues around them.

* * *

“See, I didn’t think there was a ‘not himself’ where Arthur is concerned. Here, let me help you.” Merlin stretched his end of the sheet taut while Gwen gave her end a light shake, releasing the wrinkles into smooth sweeps of white. They lowered it to the bed and proceeded to tuck in the edges. “I thought Arthur covered just about every sort of mood swing possible. But he really… wasn’t himself.”

“You don’t think he’s still ill, do you?”

Merlin shook his head slowly. “No… Well, he was in bad shape this morning. I thought he might be. But no. He just went to bed. I mean, he drank the broth and went to sleep like he hadn’t slept in ages. Now he seems all right.”

Gwen’s eyes narrowed keenly. “The nobles are still here, right?”

Merlin nodded, pointing at her. “Yeah, yeah, I see what you’re getting at.”

Gwen picked up one of Morgana’s pillows and gave it a few deft punches to fluff it. She smiled. “Probably just stress. They’re discussing estates and border disputes, or so I hear. Besides, Morgana’s had some odd humours that left me a bit shaken. Don’t forget that they’re royals. I wouldn’t worry about it.” Her grin turned cheeky and she tossed the pillow at Merlin’s head. He barely batted it out of the way in time, and it fell gracelessly onto the bed. As did he.

Gwen pounced, snatching up the pillow and landing three quick blows of fluffy horror to Merlin’s face. He grabbed for her until he connected with something that felt like an arm, but Gwen’s laugh was so near a squeal that Merlin grinned and renewed his attack.

“Sto— stop it! Merlin!” Gwen’s cries tumbled into wheezy laughter as Merlin tickled her. He managed to get himself to his knees, leaning over Gwen and jabbing repeatedly at her sides with both thumbs. She tried to twist away, smacking at him, her head tilted back in full-bodied laughter. _“Merlin, stop it!”_

“Sure? Sure you wouldn’t rather—” He snatched at her sides again, pulling just short of actually touching her, and Gwen shrieked and curled her knees up, unable to breathe for laughing. Merlin continued to fake the attack, garnering a desperate cry each time, until Gwen was helplessly giggling and they were both rather trussed up in Morgana’s nice new bed sheets.

The door swung open, a voice on its heels. “Morgana, what on earth are you—”

Merlin knew it was Arthur before he looked up, before the words halted and the room fell quiet. Gwen craned her head back, and then gasped and scrambled under Merlin’s arm and off the bed, trying to smooth her skirts as she did. Merlin raised himself to his knees and found Arthur staring at him.

The shadows of that morning were still hovering beneath Arthur’s eyes, but his gaze was hard and fierce, mouth pinched into a flat line that reminded Merlin forcibly of the way he’d looked while heaving for breath on the practice field with his sword as good as fastened to one trembling hand.

Gwen found her voice. “I’m sorry, your highness, the lady Morgana has gone to the stables.”

Arthur’s nostrils flared and his eyes shot to her. Merlin watched the prince’s mouth tighten even more. His gaze flicked up and down over Gwen, and then resettled on Merlin. Merlin could almost feel Gwen paling there beside the mussed bed.

Without another word, Arthur turned and walked out.

Gwen said nothing, only straightening the bed in mere seconds and hurrying to the door. She held it open for Merlin, but didn’t quite meet his eyes until he’d just about passed her. Then she looked right at him.

“You’re right,” she said in a subdued whisper. “You’re right about him.”

* * *

After that, Merlin didn’t know where he stood with Arthur. And the next temper to rear up caught him by surprise, not with its presence, but with its vehemence.

He’d brought a jug of wine up to Arthur’s rooms, anticipating the chance to make a peace offering during the small respite the court had from its ambassadorial visits. And if Arthur was not in fact angry, and therefore in no need of such an offering, then it would just be well-aged wine, shared between companions who could finally relax for an hour or two. Perhaps he’d even find Arthur asleep, leaving the sun-soaked room quiet and open for meditative thinking. Always simpler somehow, with the steady backdrop of Arthur’s breathing.

But Arthur was not asleep, nor was he in a relaxed state. The door creaked as usual, but the sound was overridden by a sharp, rasping scrape that made Merlin’s teeth clack together. He winced, nearly fumbling the jug he held, and pushed the door a little wider. The heavy length of Arthur’s table slid by before him, shuddering loudly across the floor in fitful heaves. Merlin watched it go until hands and arms came into view, shoving hard at the table. Arthur had not taken his gauntlets off, and they framed the straining tendons in his wrists as he bullied the table forward. He was moving fast; the table’s shrieks sounded especially agonised, as if it were alive and Arthur was cutting its legs off with his broadsword. He forced the table right across the room at a near-run, and finally to a stop at the far wall, just beside the archway to the second chamber.

The sudden cessation of noise left a ringing in Merlin’s ears. Arthur straightened slowly, sliding his hands from the table’s edge and lifting one to cover his eyes, as he did when he had a headache. He stood there, most of his weight on one foot. Merlin raised his hand to give a tentative knock, when Arthur suddenly jerked into motion, cocking his right leg up and kicking the edge of the table so hard that the massive piece of furniture slammed into the wall and bounced back. Arthur stumbled, letting out a frustrated sound, and grabbed for one of the goblets now rolling on its side across the surface. He turned, face twisted into untainted fury, and flung the goblet as hard as he could, straight at the doorway.

It would not have hit him— too far to the left— but instinct took over. Merlin leapt to the side, into the room, wine sloshing over his hands. The goblet, made on a potter’s wheel, smashed violently against the stone doorframe and fell to the floor in a shower of shrapnel. Arthur froze, staring at Merlin with astounded eyes, his hand still hovering in his follow-through.

“Merlin.” Arthur pulled himself upright, looking completely lost. It was another expression Merlin had rarely seen before; the crown prince was never lost, perhaps a bit wayward on the path, but not lost. Arthur let out a sizable breath. “I apologise.”

He gestured at the broken shards. Merlin glanced at them, and then came fully into the room and shut the door. He put the wine jug down on the newly positioned table, rather pointedly, he thought, and turned to find that Arthur had not moved. His face seemed to have frozen. Merlin gave him a hurried smile.

“It’s all right,” he said. “Couldn’t have hit me even if you’d aimed.”

But Arthur made no attempt at a comeback. His eyes trained on Merlin’s face in a way that made him want to step back, sure he’d left something undone, or done incorrectly. There was the weighty qualm of the interrogative there, as well as something a little frenzied, and something else that was very heavy indeed. Merlin fisted his hands at the hem of his tunic and met Arthur’s gaze.

Until the prince looked away. Arthur turned and walked slowly toward his bed, rubbing that same hand over his face.

“Are you all right, sire?” Merlin asked. Perhaps nothing to be worried about, but he was definitely concerned now.

Arthur stopped. He stared into the cold hearth as if it had a roaring fire in it. “Merlin—” He paused, then started again. “You’ve called yourself my friend.”

Very odd, as if Merlin had said so just yesterday instead of ages ago when they both had yet to realise how far each would go to protect the other. Sometimes Arthur still shocked Merlin to his very bones as he stood and argued his father into an uneasy truce that Uther would never have conceded to anyone else, or threw Merlin aside into the dirt while placing himself in the path of a rampaging Nixie. Arthur’s willingness to die for him was no longer something Merlin questioned; it still left him awed at strange hours of the night, that someone would throw aside his own life to preserve Merlin’s. Arthur was great in more than just name. He was truly a leader who would ask nothing of his followers but what he was willing to give himself. And half the time, he wouldn’t even let them do that.

“Yes,” Merlin said. “I have, and I do.”

Arthur craned his head around to look at him. His profile slid out of the shadows by the empty hearth and into warm light. The sheer _age_ on Arthur’s features was a pocked mask of misery. Merlin’s throat dried. And then, suddenly, the smile appeared, with enough speed to push at Merlin’s lungs.

“You’re insane, Merlin.”

It was too strange to be back to normal like this. “Why?” Merlin frowned. “Because I consider you my friend?”

Something of that withered stare crept back and was gone again. Arthur’s smile turned resigned. “No. Because you still insist on being my friend.” It was not spoken steadily, for all of Arthur’s appearance of self-control. Merlin found himself locked in the hitch, trying to remember just where it had sounded, on which word, and yet it seemed that all of Arthur’s words had been full of hitches. Or maybe it was Merlin’s mind that was hitching.

Arthur’s grin went normal again. He came over and yanked on a lock of Merlin’s hair, a firm, painless tug. “Always said you were an idiot.”

Merlin grinned back. “For putting up with you, yes.”

One fine eyebrow rose. Arthur opened his mouth to speak but ended up saying nothing. Just as quickly, weariness sagged back into him and Merlin winced. But Arthur had already turned away, gone to lean on one arm against the hearth.

“Merlin, would you say…” A pensive pause. Merlin stood still, focused on the clean lines of Arthur’s back under his blue tunic. He heard Arthur clear his throat. “Do you consider my father a fair man?”

If Arthur was going to keep throwing things out of the blue, then Merlin would have to learn to be more prepared. Had he asked the question two years ago, Merlin would have chosen the lie to make all right. Now there was little standing in the way of the truth. And the truth was not the demon it might have been anyway. After a moment of thought, Merlin said, “He is fair about many things.”

“But not about everything.” Arthur turned. Merlin could read neither his eyes nor his voice, though he felt there was some slight warning in both. He just wasn’t sure it was meant for him.

“You know it as well as I do,” Merlin answered. There were cold spots lingering between father and son that Merlin didn’t know the cause of; even now, Arthur kept a tight hold on certain secrets. Then again, it wasn’t exactly Merlin’s business, and he was probably happier not knowing everything.

He already knew enough to understand that the kingdom would only improve when Arthur was crowned. He likened it to watching the refinement of excellence: Uther, more just than the rulers before him, would give way to Arthur, whose understanding of true justice would be tempered to remain untainted by personal agony, the way his father’s had not been.

“You probably know it better,” Merlin finished. Arthur looked at him, a quick swivel of his head. The action was so out of tune with the rest of Arthur’s slow, drugged behavior— in fact, Merlin realised, the prince kept shifting, as quick as the wind could change. Slow to fast, glum to furious. Something grated in the line of Arthur’s jaw, and Merlin felt an ugliness begin to knead at his gut.

“You don’t like my father.” Not a question at all. Arthur’s eyes were hard, his mouth a crisp line. Merlin’s patience unexpectedly buckled, and before he knew it, there was accusation on his face, in his mouth, twitching the magic at his fingertips.

“Do you want me to tell you the truth, Arthur, or is this one of _those_ topics?” he said stiffly.

It was stunning how sublime Arthur could be: in the space of a breath, he straightened, drew himself up and then drew up something invisible under his skin, and suddenly he was towering, majestic and angry and _scary_ , fully intent on— and fully capable of— getting exactly what he desired. Merlin nearly cringed; even knowing the crown prince intimately could not remove this power from Arthur’s arsenal. It was a fist in the gut every time, knowing again and again and _again_ that this man would one day rule the country.

Right then, the entire world did not seem out of the question.

“Your tone, Merlin,” Arthur said, each word a deliberate push. He glared across the few feet that separated them, eyes full of cold, blue iron. It was effective, but not enough to quell Merlin’s sense of frustration.

“Do _you_ like your father?” he fired at Arthur.

Arthur snapped back, “I love my father.”

“Not the word I used.” He knew he was crossing right over some line he shouldn’t, a line he couldn’t see clearly right now but would see very well indeed from his vantage point in the stocks or wherever the next day. But he just couldn’t keep it to himself this time, not when it felt like Arthur was setting him up, saying one thing and then playing his own devil’s advocate.

“Get out, Merlin,” Arthur intoned darkly. But even then, Merlin could see Uther’s past transgressions rolling by beyond Arthur’s steely glower, one by one demanding consideration that Arthur obviously did not want to give right then. They were all feeding something, a lurking hint of an emotion Merlin did not want to face. And then he did not want Arthur to have to face it either. He opened his mouth, stomach churning with the need to apologise and tamp it down again, out of sight, but Arthur’s glare turned furious. He slammed a hand down on the table with a sharp bang and pointed a finger at Merlin’s head. _“Get out now, or I will throw you in the dungeon myself.”_

Merlin went. He heard Arthur’s chair scrape as he pulled the door shut behind him, and the thump of the other man collapsing into it.

* * *

He wasn’t allowed into the throne room for the ambassadorial visits. No one outside the royal family was; Morgana couldn’t even manage to muscle Gwen past Uther, and Arthur did not even try with Merlin. It wasn’t nearly the blow it had been during the first few months, when Merlin had felt slighted by what he perceived of as a small snub from a young man he was fast considering a friend. It was just Arthur without Merlin, which was the same as Merlin without Arthur: at times, absolutely necessary, and a good idea anyway because they weren’t the same person. They each had their own obligations and necessities. Most importantly, one of them was a prince while the other was not, and conversely, Merlin had yet to find a magical bone in Arthur’s entire body.

But there was a difference between recognising the importance of solidarity and being Arthur’s closest friend.

It took Merlin a mere hour to decide that he had to be inside that room. See what Arthur was seeing. He could very nearly date Arthur’s moroseness to the first noble embassy’s arrival a week back— except that wasn’t exactly true, was it?

It may have just recently hit Arthur hard, but he’d not been himself for at least a month. Maybe more. Little things that were easy to ignore, and easy to be punished for not ignoring.

It was a snap of his fingers— quite literally, actually— to hoodwink the guards and slip inside the diplomatic chambers. All those lovely columns were perfect for concealing oneself in place for a good ear, if not view, of the proceedings. Merlin managed it easily, slinking in behind the façade of an amateur concealing spell. Very simple, but there was still something about Uther that made Merlin feel guilty about using his magic. It made no sense; Merlin guessed it had to do with whatever Arthur had inherited from him. That sense of… kingliness.

But, as always, it wasn’t hard to talk himself into using magic anyway, not when Arthur’s mental and physical health were at stake.

For the first few minutes, watching Arthur from behind the pillar did not present anything that Merlin hadn’t seen before. This time, Arthur’s volatile temperament was snuffed under the presence of so many important nobles, not the least of which being Camelot’s king himself. Arthur looked his father’s way several times as the group rumbled into discussion, but with a lazy, foggy slowness that made Merlin chew his lip. The energy that should have been pent up beneath Arthur’s skin— always, always the prince was lively for matters of state in which he would one day have final say— was absent. Arthur was listless at the same time as he was nervous. Merlin had no idea how he did it. It was as if he were itching to leap out of himself so he could collapse immediately after. And no one else seemed to notice the lack of energy. It was astounding that they could not see it, as they could all very well see Arthur. Merlin recognised several of the nobles from previous visits, and he’d thought that most of them were familiar enough with the prince’s mannerisms to discern a drop in energy.

But Morgana was actually _watching_ Arthur, too, though not in the way one might if one were worried. The look on her face was one that Merlin would be very content never to bear the brunt of for the rest of his life. There was something betrayed in her eyes, anger in the lines of her forehead. And possibly Arthur’s death in the twist of her mouth. More than a little worrisome.

Merlin listened with half an ear, on guard for anything particularly upsetting. The conversation, however, seemed to be about the fate of the servants in two particular households of Albion.

“It’s the principle of the thing!” a Lord Ulfric was ranting. “A servant she may be, but he can’t just dismiss her when clearly she had little to do with any of it. She is the eldest child of my steward, brought up decently, contracted to serve for wages, and she deserves better than being sent to the dregs of Albion—”

Uther raised his hand, gaining everyone’s attention except for Arthur’s. “Proposing battle with another lord over a servant?”

“She’s Pictish,” another lord jumped in. “Can you even ask why he’d want to be rid of her? I’d think it obvious. She’s already causing discord.”

Merlin could make little of Arthur’s pensiveness. He hadn’t looked up for most of the meeting. Merlin let the argument fade into the background and scrutinised his prince’s appearance. Not unkempt in the slightest, perched as only a prince could be in his high-backed chair. A little sprawl and a little forbearance. But… It was not Arthur’s norm. There wasn’t anything specific Merlin could pick out yet. He only knew that it didn’t look right, it didn’t feel right. Didn’t feel like Arthur.

“That may very well be,” Uther cut in, his tone dry. “But she is a servant in Lord Meurig’s household. He may send her where he wishes, or not. As no laws are being explicitly broken, I have no grounds to question his decision.”

Arthur shifted suddenly. It would have gone unnoticed by anyone not focusing directly on him, but Merlin saw it coming in the clench of Arthur’s hand around the chair’s armrest just before. There was only one word for the expression on the prince’s face: discomfort. He looked to be listening, but everything about him was unfocussed, jittery. Arthur even tapped his fingers twice against the armrest, which did, unfortunately, draw the attention of others.

Uther’s brows came together, impatience tinting his half-smile. “Have you something to contribute, Arthur?”

And then, something strange happened. Arthur returned his father’s gaze for a few seconds longer than was completely necessary, causing the room to fold into a hush. The lords were looking at him, as were the rest of Uther’s court. Arthur’s eyes flashed to the lord who had been offering the most lively dispute of Uther’s judgment.

The prince’s face went a touch more drawn. He dragged his eyes away. “No, your majesty,” he murmured. Uther studied him, and Merlin saw the inscrutable flare in the king’s eyes, the same one he’d seen just after Valiant had nearly sent his asps’ poison into Arthur’s veins. So rare, that look, and sobering, every time. But as always, gone too quickly to commit to memory. Uther’s placid mask fell back into place along with his curt nod.

“Very well, then. Lord Ulfric, if I may turn your attention away from these unsavory scandals in Meurig’s household—”

The talk rambled a little stiffly into crop harvests and trade proposition, and exactly what belonged to whom, considering that there had been deaths in certain families. Morgana’s attention seemed to have been drawn away from her almost-brother. But Arthur’s face had paled even further, and Merlin could see the white ends of his fingers, curled around each other in his lap.

* * *

The order was given in a rather unconcerned manner, given that Arthur’s voice still managed to hold onto some of the uneasiness that Merlin had been waiting and waiting for him to shed. But Arthur, while being many things, was most notably a prince, and princes knew how to give orders. Today, Arthur did it while exploring the broken heel of one boot, then yanking it off and throwing it and its twin into the corner. “Merlin, prepare my hunting gear for the evening. Bring food for the both of us, and dress for rain.”

It wasn’t as diminishing as some of Arthur’s orders could be. This one was almost suggestion-esque.

Workable boots aside, Merlin had plenty to do gathering Arthur’s crossbow, longbow and quiver, riding coat and extra set of leather breeches for after the storm hit. And it was going to storm. Apparently Arthur, whose talents ranged all over the place, could also predict weather like a consummate sailor. Merlin headed downstairs with his arms full of his and Arthur’s belongings, in a fairly good mood, considering that he truly wasn’t fond of bungling Arthur’s various hunting excursions. Sometimes, Merlin needed the hunt to turn out well as much as Arthur did. It was strangely comforting, watching Arthur’s riveted planning, the stalk and tease of his prey, and his quiet sense of accomplishment when his shot struck true. Today, this week especially, Arthur needed to be able to relax, and it seemed he knew this as well as Merlin did: there was no hunting party set to accompany them, and today’s outing felt like it would be a lazy trek through cool and misting woods, with half an eye on the silky grey sky rather than on their prey.

There were still downsides. The horses would smell in the rain. But then, that was what baths were for.

When Merlin came across Arthur in the stables, he found Morgana there with him. She was dressed for the outdoors, a long and heavy coat snug about her shoulders, collar turned up and hair covered in a sturdily woven cap. Merlin felt something rear unexpectedly inside him, the knowledge that they would be three instead of two, but forgot it when he registered what he was hearing.

Morgana’s voice seethed, a furious yell twisted down into discretion. “—can’t simply dismiss people because you don’t want them around, Arthur!”

Arthur’s tension had barrelled completely to the fore, choking his stance. He twisted his hands in the reins of the horse he already held— and that, there, was eerie all by itself, Arthur seeing to his own saddling? “Will you just leave it be?” he hissed.

“I will not!” Morgana shot back. “You’ve no right, and you know it! If I return tonight and find that you’ve gone ahead and done it, I swear to you, Arthur—”

“Morgana!” Arthur cut in. “I am going hunting!”

“You can’t treat her like this,” Morgana said stubbornly. “Do you hear me, I will not let you!”

Arthur shoved the entire argument off with a jerk of his hand, leading the horse right past Morgana at a swiftly paced stride. Morgana watched him go, her eyes meeting Merlin’s for a moment, and then she yanked the edges of her cap down viciously and stalked further into the stables. Arthur burst out with his horse in tow and saw Merlin. His scowl rippled even further into enmity and he let out a harsh sound through his nose. “Come on, Merlin.”

Arthur pointed with one heavily gloved hand, and Merlin found his own horse saddled and tethered to the fencing that surrounded the stables. He stared. Arthur had readied a horse for him as well. “I…”

“Today, Merlin?” Arthur’s voice hovered around severe irritation.

Merlin followed quickly, tossing his gear over the fence so he could assist Arthur with his coat. Arthur buttoned up in silence, adjusted his horse’s bridle while Merlin pulled his hat on and affixed their supplies to his own saddle, and mounted without another word.

* * *

The open woods brought Arthur back to his assured, regal self so rapidly that Merlin had to admit to being a little alarmed.

“I’m sorry, Arthur,” he burst out, when Camelot’s turrets were finally snatched away behind the trees, “but I really do have to ask.”

And he was all set to do just that, except that Arthur started speaking. “I’m fine,” he said brightly. Gave a smile. “Just had to get out. Of there.” He gestured in the direction they’d come. His eyes, when they swung back to Merlin, were heavy with relief. He reached up and tugged the thick wrap closer around his throat, then clicked to his mount, turning them east.

“All right.” It was not all right. He could still see Arthur’s bone-weariness, even through the straightened shoulders and alert posture. Merlin had a feeling that Arthur had been trained so deftly to be royal that his own body barely had the ability to betray emotion any longer. He’d be upright and perfectly poised right up to the moment he actually collapsed in a nervous wreck. Another alarming thought.

Arthur looked at the sky. “Should have gone by the mews,” he ventured.

Merlin frowned. “For one of the birds? In this weather?”

Arthur shrugged. “I like watching the falcons fly,” was all he said.

They did not, in fact, hunt. Not that there was anything much stirring to _be_ hunted in the woods today. But Arthur’s hand never really strayed to his crossbow, as it often did when he was itching to use it. Merlin eyed the prince carefully as they rode, feeling them pulling further and further away from stealthy chases through the underbrush.

Arthur took them on a sedate path that ended up full of the sound of the river rushing nearby. When the waters were in sight through the trees, Arthur dismounted and secured his horse to a fallen snag, then made his way to the river’s edge, crossbow finally in hand. Still, Merlin couldn’t feel the bloodlust on the air. He tethered his own horse and followed Arthur, shouldering the pack that held their cloaks.

The river was crystalline in the grey light, higher than usual, and tumbling steadily by. This time Merlin was easily able to keep up with Arthur, for the other seemed uninterested in leaving him behind to follow if he could; Arthur just walked, toeing carefully through the brambles and jutting roots at the bank, using a low branch for support here and there while ducking slowly along.

When Arthur actually sat down on a thick tuft of grass, Merlin stopped, bewildered.

Arthur laid his crossbow aside and peered up at him. “Well? Sit down already.”

Merlin did not. “Thought we were going hunting.”

Arthur’s cheeks may have flushed a bit, Merlin couldn’t be sure. “Nothing out today,” he said, looking at the water. “Besides, I’m famished.”

Merlin handed him the pack, too much in a daze to remember that he was currently the servant in this partnership, but Arthur did not comment. He merely unfastened the catches, threw the flap open, and rifled beneath their cloaks until he discovered the apples. Merlin had to react quickly to catch the one that was lobbed in his direction, else it would have sailed into the river and that would have been that.

He settled himself gingerly a few feet away from Arthur, until he discovered that the grass was quite dry, and bit into his apple. They chewed in silence for a while, listening to the river’s flow. Merlin swallowed. Everything felt… a little more peaceful than it had in weeks, and he wasn’t sure what had changed, but he wasn’t going to argue.

“So. Negotiations aren’t going smoothly, then?” he asked by way of conversation.

Arthur moved restlessly. “Can we not talk about that?” he grated. Merlin looked at him sidelong.

“You’re not all right, then.”

Arthur shut his eyes. A flick of his wrist had his half-eaten apple floating downriver. Merlin blinked, startled.

“I don’t relish these meetings, you know,” Arthur said suddenly, turning to face Merlin with intent enough to make him lean back. “I don’t _enjoy_ listening to why we cannot have a peaceful existence in this kingdom!”

“I… didn’t say you did,” Merlin tried, but Arthur’s frown became a scowl.

“They’re fools, Merlin! Meurig and Ulfric are— All they do is bicker and throw their hands about and get their way. All the bloody, bloody time!”

There was a lot of vehemence behind that statement. A lot. Merlin felt his skin rise in gooseflesh, and not from the cold. There was definitely something underneath what Arthur was ranting about, something that went beyond agitation.

 _Why won’t you talk to me anymore?_ He nearly said it out loud. For a second, from the way Arthur’s pupils dilated, he was sure he had.

“It is rather unfair of them, isn’t it, getting their way all the time?” Merlin tried for humour, and if his voice shook a little, he chose not to notice.

Instead of breaking into a smile, though, Arthur’s face closed down even further; his cheeks lost colour and he jerked his head away. Merlin straightened, staring, watching in dismay as the Arthur he’d seen cautiously surfacing again under the green canopy of the forest faded further away. “Arthur.”

With a single motion, Arthur was on his feet again, and Merlin was looking at the lean, muscled line of his breeches. He raised his eyes, but Arthur had already turned away from the riverside. At that moment, Merlin felt a raindrop splat down onto his forehead. Another landed on his neck, and then the sky veritably tore open, and the storm let itself go.

By the time Merlin got to his feet, Arthur’s golden hair was plastered to his forehead and nape, and rivulets of water dripped from his chin, soaking quickly into his leather coat. But the rage, the upset, and the tension had fled his features, and Arthur just looked at him, almost helplessly.

Lightning flashed; Arthur’s strange expression vanished. He leaned down, picked up the pack, and settled it into Merlin’s arms. Merlin took it, at a loss over the shift of the movement, gradual and not forceful at all. Steady.

“We’re going back?” Merlin asked quietly.

Arthur picked up his crossbow. “No,” he said. And then he was walking into the trees, and Merlin was going after him.

* * *

And they didn’t go back. Not for at least an hour. The ride through the forest was long and silent, and if not for Arthur’s mystical sense of direction, Merlin would have gotten hopelessly lost in the rain.

The horses were soaked, and Arthur’s cloak and coat were both absolutely sodden and dripping when they finally returned to the stables. The night had come in above the storm clouds, leaving the sky dark and fuming. Merlin did not feel cold, despite his own drenched clothing; just heavy, and layered in more than soaking wool. It clung uncomfortably to every inch of his body, but beyond that, the rain was a warmish one.

Arthur handed off both of their mounts to a stable boy in the same silence, but Merlin followed him up to the castle as if an order had indeed been spoken.

~tbc~


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur’s deterioration was well-marked after that, perhaps not by his own father or knights, but Merlin saw it as cleanly as he would have seen a bleeding wound. What little sleep the prince was getting was obviously doing nothing for him. Arthur grew mute when he never had been before: during meals, during training, during morning and evening preparations for rising or sleeping respectively, and during the bloody negotiations themselves, which only seemed to aggravate him more. Merlin could tell that Uther was not enjoying the situation either. The constant squabbling between Meurig and Ulfric had not eased in the slightest, though Merlin could see little importance to the continued sniping about ill-used servants, not in relation to the border issues Uther was so obviously trying to turn them toward.

When Arthur was not in the throne room, his mood remained unimproved, even if the tension in his shoulders seemed to lessen. Merlin watched servant after servant shy away simply on instinct, for Arthur said nothing to them aside from giving the occasional order. The shock came when Merlin realised that Arthur seemed to rouse his energy well enough when Gwen and Morgana were present, but he didn’t fully see it for what it was until Gwen caught him after one very dark mealtime for the three royals.

“I’ve never…” Gwen twisted her hands in her lap, perched on the small windowsill in an empty corridor. “Have I done something?” she asked, a little desperately, and Merlin frowned.

“Done what?”

“Merlin, have I angered him? He’s never, ever been this… this cold. To me.”

 _Arthur,_ Merlin thought, and inhaled sharply. “He’s said he’s angry with you?”

“No!” Gwen moaned. “Well, sometimes he is, that is, he seems to be, and then… Then that’s not it at all. I can’t think what I might have done!”

Merlin watched Arthur even more closely after that, and saw a disturbing reaction to Gwen’s presence on several occasions, the most troubling of which was not the initial glare, but the paleness that followed, the way Arthur turned away as quickly as he could. Almost as if he didn’t want to see her at all.

It wasn’t anger, not that part. Merlin didn’t know what it was.

He came into Gaius’ workroom one afternoon with an armful of cornflower cuttings, and found himself the target of a supremely puzzled stare. Merlin looked behind him, then back at Gaius, and then suddenly he knew, because Gwen’s uneasiness bore that very same puzzlement.

“Arthur was here,” Merlin stated.

Gaius pulled himself to rights, taking the cuttings from Merlin’s arms. “Only just. You saw him?”

Merlin shook his head, and Gaius raised an interested eyebrow, but did not press. Merlin helped behead the flowers for several minutes, putting each delicate blue petal into the little jars Gaius had set out, and then he had to ask.

“How does he look to you? Does he seem sick again?”

“Arthur?” Gaius straightened, looking thoughtful. “He looks… Well, he’s not quite as well as I’ve seen him, but—”

“Something’s wrong,” Merlin interrupted. “I know it.”

It was Gaius’ lack of answer that confirmed it for Merlin: whatever he’d witnessed minutes ago, all was not sitting right with the healer.

“Why was he here?” Merlin pried.

“You know, I’m not really sure,” Gaius mused. He corked a full jar and walked over to place it on his shelves. “I thought he was looking for you, but he asked after a sleeping draught instead. Only…” Gaius nodded to the table. Merlin looked and saw a thin bottle like the ones he delivered to Morgana sitting there beside an open anatomy tome.

“He left it here?”

“Never even picked it up.” Gaius frowned, opened his mouth, and closed it.

“And?” Merlin said after a moment.

“Well. He asked— rather frivolously— if I could brew him some sort of love potion.” Gaius’ brows were an unforgiving line. He pointed at Merlin with one gnarled finger. “And I told him that that was a particularly appalling branch of magic, and no healer or right thinking warlock would ever create such a thing.” Gaius sighed, sounding careworn. “That made him snort, certainly.”

Merlin nodded, feeling the frown brewing on his own face. Gaius continued about the business of stoppering bottles, obviously finished with the story. But Merlin was not finished, not even near.

“What else?”

Gaius paused, looking at him keenly. Merlin levelled his stare. “I know he said something else. He won’t talk to anyone, not even me. But he said something to you. You have that look in your eye, the same one Gwen’s been wearing lately.”

“Merlin, I was told in confidence.” Gaius looked somewhat disappointed in him.

“I know, Gaius.” Merlin contemplated his handful of flower petals for a moment before setting his jaw. “But there’s something wrong. Something big. He’s not well, and I have no idea why. He won’t say.”

Gaius studied him for a long, long time. Then he sighed and gestured for Merlin to sit down. Merlin sat, brow furrowed as he took in the way Gaius’ expression lengthened.

“I believe the prince is having a crisis of the heart,” Gaius said gently. Merlin sat back.

“What do you mean?”

“Arthur asked me if I’d ever loved someone who didn’t love me. Yes, that is what he said, Merlin,” Gaius continued at Merlin’s surprised sound. “The truth is that everyone has, at one time or another. Arthur confessed that he thought… well, he’d always thought he would have little problem with such things, being the crown prince. He is not spoiled, Merlin, you know that.” Gaius sighed again. “He’s been brought up to work for what he wants, to create his own luck, to find the means and to implement them. Uther did not raise a brat for a son. He is not a bad parent, whatever other faults he might have.”

“Arthur’s in love?” Merlin repeated, a little stuck.

“I have no idea. It could have been rhetorical, for all I know. You may not be aware, but Arthur is as much a dweller as you, a ponderer and a considerer.”

“I am aware,” Merlin said hotly. Gaius raised his brows.

“He isn’t one to show it, Merlin. You know that better than most. When there is inner conflict, Arthur Pendragon will not let on, as a rule of thumb. He is much like his father that way, and his mother, too, I daresay. They are royalty; they do not let it be known when they do not have the answers.”

Merlin studied his hands for a few seconds. “What did you tell him, then?”

“I told him that no one is immune to rejection, or to disappointment. To loss. Even if they are born to kings. It is the way of life. I also told him that I knew he was strong, and well-meaning, and that if in the end, the one he desired was lost to him, it would take time but he would heal. Though I do not think that helped his mood.” Gaius frowned to himself; there was a tinge of worry there. “Regardless of whether his question is specific or not, he is conflicted. Over what exactly, I do not know. Now. Will that help you to help him?”

Merlin felt like the most impotent individual on earth. “No,” he admitted softly. He shook his head. “I still don’t understand.”

“Then perhaps it is time to lance the wound, as they say.” Gaius got to his feet, looking at Merlin meaningfully, and went back to his herbs.

* * *

On the eighth day, Arthur was nearly wooden there in the courtroom, stiff in his chair, glowered at by Morgana and studied from time to time by his father, until the moment when Meurig demanded more land and servants who were properly docile, and Arthur told him fiercely to go to hell.

Several of the lords were nearly out of their chairs, staring at the suddenly blazing crown prince of Camelot, but before Uther could order his son from the room, Arthur took himself out, stalking to the doorway with fury floating around him in a tangible haze.

Even Morgana looked shocked out of her bad mood.

Arthur threw open the doors with a ferocious shove that sent them banging into the walls outside. Merlin had to wait for the many pairs of eyes to turn from the doorway before he could follow, but soon enough they were all arguing again, and Merlin had decided that it was time to wrench whatever this was out of Arthur, no matter what it took.

But when he reached Arthur’s rooms, following the wake of wide eyed servants, he did not find the same person inside.

Merlin unfroze himself from the open doorway and came in, shutting the door. Arthur sat at the end of the table, his hands limply draped over his knees, staring down at the floor. A flash of gold revealed his crown lying almost under the bed. On the floor. Merlin swallowed and made for Arthur.

Arthur did not even try to hide his state; his eyes were reddened, and held the shadows of the very ill. Nor had he bothered to wipe away the moisture that trailed down his cheeks. Merlin could see the flicker of firelight over it, lending Arthur’s features a childlike despair. Only Arthur was no child; his despair was very adult and very real, and Merlin felt sick at what demons were chewing at Arthur’s innards. There was something so bedraggled and self-condemning about the man sitting in that chair that Merlin didn’t think, he just walked, across the plush rug to Arthur’s side, and knelt before him with his hands on both of Arthur’s bare forearms.

“Arthur,” he whispered. Arthur blinked. A tear trembled on his eyelashes, a fragile, hovering thing. Merlin rubbed his palms as soothingly as he knew how over Arthur’s arms. “What is it?”

“You aren’t needed here, Merlin,” Arthur said in a cracked voice. He gazed at Merlin as if he couldn’t bear to look at him, and yet could do nothing else. Merlin’s hand crept up and brushed gently under Arthur’s eye, catching the tear on the tip of his thumb. Arthur’s breath caught and he dropped his gaze, forcing new pain to coil in Merlin’s gut. “I’m sure you have something better to do,” Arthur muttered.

“No, I don’t, actually,” Merlin said. His voice rose more than he’d wanted and he had to take a moment to calm down. To keep from shivering. Arthur was shaky enough for both of them. He gripped his prince’s arm tightly to get his attention, suddenly needing to see focus in those blue eyes again instead of that dull sheen. “Please. Tell me what’s wrong. Arthur?”

Perhaps Arthur was just too tired to hold it all at bay anymore. Perhaps he couldn’t keep from speaking. His mouth pinched hard just before it opened. “I’m not a good man, Merlin.”

The words were so shattered and so… untrue. Merlin’s mouth went slack. He struggled to find some sort of response, but there wasn’t any answer that Arthur did not already know, nothing that would explain his behavior and still be true. “You are,” he fumbled at last. “Arthur, you’re the best of men.”

 _You went to the caves for me. You wallowed in a cell as punishment for doing everything right. You stole poison from under my nose so you could drink it yourself._ He hadn’t thought Arthur needed reminding, but what was Arthur anyway but a man, a boy wading through the same troubles as every other boy, only with extra weights lashed to his limbs? A boy growing up with an entire kingdom on his back.

Arthur’s eyes did not rise to his. “I’m not,” he whispered. Merlin should barely have heard it, but the words struck alarm in his chest like the clanging of church bells. He abruptly saw the precipice that Arthur was standing over, ready to fall in hours, days. Or seconds.

“Look at me,” Merlin croaked. Arthur did, and Merlin swallowed, trying to gain back his control. What Arthur did to him, always, somehow… He couldn’t explain it, how deep the pain went, the indignation. The fear. “What’s done this? Tell me what’s happened, Arthur. Please just… please tell me.”

He hadn’t meant to sound so winded, as if he were being buffeted at the edge there with Arthur. But he felt like he was. It scared him, whatever could bring Arthur down so far that he couldn’t even look Merlin in the eye. It wasn’t something he could fix with a spell, and it hurt, how well he knew that. He was supposed to save Arthur from everything, and for the first time it occurred to him that he might have to save Arthur from himself.

He didn’t know if he was capable of _that_ sort of magic.

It took a little time for Arthur’s shuddering to ease, and all the while his gaze remained down. The fact that Arthur could cry like this in front of him was staggering, even now. That Arthur _would_. Maybe he could no longer help it, but Merlin knew Arthur, knew what it took for him to show the prince to the world instead of the young, vulnerable man, and knew this gesture for what it was. For an instant, they were back in the forest, lounging on a bank eating apples, with no prince and no servant in sight, no castle, no future fate looming.

Finally Arthur raised his head. There was something wild flickering in his eyes. He opened his mouth, then said nothing for so long— arguments Merlin couldn’t hear jousting there beyond Arthur’s expression— and then—

“I’ve a rival,” Arthur said tightly. Merlin tried to gather the meaning in those three words, but couldn’t. Arthur looked up again and turned away. “For someone’s affections, I mean.”

He swallowed.

It did not deserve this near-total collapse. Arthur had never been unsure of himself; not vain, but naturally comfortable with charm and delicacy. And attraction. When he had to be, at least. Merlin shook his head. “I don’t…”

Arthur grimaced and rubbed his forehead with a shaking hand. “No, that’s not… That’s not _why_ , Merlin.” At least there was some fervor in his voice now. Arthur’s fragility was frightening him. Merlin gripped Arthur’s arm to remind them both that they were still here, still together.

Arthur’s hand rose back to his forehead and hid his face, rubbing and rubbing and… rubbing… Merlin reached and grabbed him about the wrist. Arthur immediately snatched his hand away.

“Don’t,” he muttered.

“Arthur.”

“I was going to get rid of my rival,” Arthur said very suddenly.

“I…” Merlin faltered into the silence. And Arthur’s collapse began again.

“I thought… I considered just… Merlin, it’s so easy to use what I _am_ , don’t you see?”

He didn’t know if he did. It was obvious that Arthur needed him to, that he was desperate for that acknowledgment.

“You don’t know how… how little it would take…” This time he pulled both hands away from Merlin and covered his face. “I’m the crown prince. I could… Whatever I wanted. Like my father.”

Merlin knelt in frozen silence, finally hearing, understanding. Gaius’ words came back to him; the reality of making one’s own luck, of finding the means and implementing them, had never sounded so horrific.

“Arthur,” he said at last. “Look at me. Please?”

After a moment when Merlin was almost sure that he wouldn’t, Arthur did look at him.

“Talk to me.”

“I didn’t,” Arthur whispered. “I didn’t do it, I swear.”

“I— I know you didn’t.”

“But I almost did,” Arthur said, as though Merlin had not spoken. “I very nearly ordered… I almost…”

The magnitude of it was just beginning to creep over Merlin, not only the potential for death, exile, a grievous miscarriage of justice, but also the fact that Arthur cared for someone so fervently that he would consider such an act. Someone Merlin had never seen hinted at or even mentioned. It hit him hard in the chest, and then again, thudding deeper than any lance or poison or blade could go. His fingers had moved to Arthur’s shoulders, and he found he was gripping very hard. He forced himself to loosen his hold.

The sense of loss was more powerful almost than the knowledge that he had something to lose. It hadn’t been something he acknowledged, not openly or even to himself; just a sort of innate awareness that Arthur meant more to him than perhaps he should. That Merlin’s comfort went soul-deep these days, and that Arthur was the cause. Now that comfort, that stability, that _place_ was ripped from under him, and for a moment, Merlin floundered.

But Arthur didn’t need him floundering now. There was more at stake here than his own contentment, there was Arthur’s well-being, his sense of self falling away. Truths that he, the man Merlin would give anything to protect, was in desperate need of. When Merlin felt he could stand without falling over, he did, careful to keep his hold on Arthur. The prince stirred, watching as he got to his feet.

“What kind of king does that make me?” Arthur whispered.

“It makes you a good one. Listen to me, Arthur, it does. You had options and you chose what was right. You always choose what is _right_ , Arthur.”

“It’s unforgivable,” Arthur grated. Merlin gripped his shoulders.

“But you didn’t. Arthur. You didn’t go through with it. You knew it was unforgivable, and you did not act.”

“Merlin—” Arthur’s expression was cracking, falling, another tear sliding down his cheek. Merlin inhaled sharply and wiped it away with the length of his fingers, then cradled Arthur’s face until Arthur leaned forward and Merlin caught him, felt arms wrap around him, and found himself embracing the other man, Arthur’s face pressed into the midriff of his shirt. Arthur shuddered bodily, then clenched Merlin to him, hard. Merlin bent over Arthur, one hand on his back, the other in his hair, and held on.

* * *

At some point, awkwardness stole into the room. Merlin wasn’t sure when, but it was after Arthur’s grief had subsided. Twilight was falling, colouring the room in pale golds. The prince was slumped in his chair, his reddened eyes faraway. Merlin leaned against the table within an arm’s reach of Arthur, one hand resting beside Arthur’s own on the armrest.

It was so difficult not to touch him now, now that he… couldn’t. Oh, of course, Merlin knew he could— Arthur had shown he had no qualms about that at the moment— but he also knew that his reasons would never be the same again, never in the name of assisting Arthur or following his orders. He would touch Arthur because he liked it, liked feeling the heat of Arthur’s life pulsing through his skin and the way Arthur looked at him just after. He would touch Arthur because part of him needed to. And that was only feeding an inevitable loss.

And just as much, he wanted to make Arthur _see_ , because he was sure Arthur still did not. However Arthur had gotten to this point, it had left a dangerous, harsh imprint. A terrible cycle that sucked sleep away, which only sleep could set right. If Arthur were in a healthier state, he would brush this off as an irritant; disturbing, but never one that truly threatened to become reality. That Arthur thought he actually could send a person to his death simply because he got in his way… It shocked the senses. Arthur was not that sort of person. He defended tiny villages of peasants that weren’t even under his crown, he crept behind his father’s back to foil insane executions— he did not have it in him to take a person’s life just to make his own life more comfortable. If Arthur didn’t know that, Merlin did, and he was going to remind him of it.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly, knowing that Arthur was not all right at all, but needing to make him face it again. Gaius’ proverbial ‘wound’ was infected, still maligned, and Merlin knew healing would hurt like hell, but it needed to be done and he didn’t trust anyone else with Arthur Pendragon’s heart.

Arthur’s eyes focused slowly. He turned his head and seemed to see Merlin again. The paleness rushed back into his cheeks so quickly that Merlin’s misery doubled. “Arthur, you will _be_ all right,” he tried.

Arthur just shook his head.

Merlin knelt again, needing Arthur’s gaze like water against parched lips, and stinging deeply for that need. “You are not that person,” he said stubbornly. “You _are not_. You’ve been ill, Arthur, you’re still worn through, and you— Do I need to remind you of everything you’ve done to save other people’s lives?”

“If I am willing to wield my power that way, then I am no saviour.” Arthur’s voice was too calm, flat as glass.

“It was just a thought! Arthur, we’ve all wanted to… to just get someone out of the way. I know I have! Everyone thinks those things, even you. You can’t condemn yourself for a thought, not even a bad one.”

“A horrendous one,” Arthur whispered.

“Stop. Stop it.” Merlin settled his hands on Arthur’s forearms once more. “You are no monster, Arthur. You’ve done _nothing wrong_.”

“I’ve learned. From my father.”

“Arthur—” He was going to shake him, he could feel it, because it was so false, so many hideous self-condemnations coming out of Arthur’s mouth, and it ached to think that anyone, most of all Arthur, could actually believe them. “You don’t honestly think you are capable. Do you?”

Arthur looked at him miserably. His eyes glimmered again. “I don’t…” His voice hitched. “I don’t know anymore.”

Merlin barely stopped himself from grabbing Arthur and pulling him close again. Pressing it all out of him, this insanity, this affliction. As if he’d forgotten the battles he’d fought, the labyrinth he’d walked and the poison he’d wrestled right out of Merlin’s hands. As if he’d forgotten that Merlin’s own mother would not be alive but for him and his doggedness, his determination to make all right with a world so much bigger than him. Camelot itself would be a barren wasteland now, but for Arthur’s self-sacrifice. And here he was, torturing himself with a thought, an inclination born of frustration and… and jealousy.

Merlin bit his lip.

“Well, I know you aren’t capable,” he said firmly. “Arthur, I know you so well—” He had to stop. He was headed down the wrong path with that. “You are a good man. A great leader. You have to believe that, because I do, and so do you, even if you don’t think so right now.”

“Merlin—” Arthur broke off. His mouth twisted downward and his eyes nearly closed. Somehow— god, Merlin had no idea how— he looked even sadder.

Merlin moved without thinking, needing only to get through to Arthur, and settled his hands on Arthur’s thighs. Arthur’s eyes flicked up and met his.

“ _Don’t_ look that way,” Merlin said forcefully. “Don’t look like you’ve already lost, Arthur. Nothing’s…” He drew a deep breath, wondering how he was able to say this. “Nothing’s certain until it’s certain.”

They were his words, and yet they weren’t. He had other things to say, subtleties he might use and truths he could twist. But the reality was, Merlin knew he’d regret it terribly if he tried to shift the currents in his favour. With Arthur in such a state, obviously driven to the end of his rope by whatever random problems had managed to leap on him all at once— It was too guilty a notion to face.

The knowledge of what he was doing, the realisation, was shockingly painful. Merlin held back the hurt, and with it, a sigh. If Arthur wanted him, he’d find a way to make it happen. Arthur was no cowering novice when it came to… well, anything. It was time to let things go along the path they were meant to follow.

“You should tell her,” Merlin said at last, and try as he might, he couldn’t bring himself to look Arthur in the eye while he spoke. He felt like a coward.

Arthur’s legs went very still under his hands. Merlin heard him release an unsteady breath. “You don’t… You don’t understand.”

It was a knell, foreign and final. Merlin looked up and found Arthur’s tears much more prevalent, welling dangerously in his eyes. “Make me understand,” he urged. “Why can’t you tell her how you feel?”

“It’s impossible now,” Arthur gritted out. It was the voice one used when trying not to release what was dying to get free; if Arthur spoke normally, he wouldn’t be able to stop his grief again. “If you knew who I almost condemned, you—”

His eyes widened and he shut his mouth, as if he’d just caught himself out. Merlin stared at him, met his gaze straight on. Something fluttered in his brain. And then things began to click, so rapidly he forgot to inhale. Arthur’s only show of anger, blasted head on at Morgana, and… Gwen. Gwen, whose hands shook and whose lip trembled as she lamented an act she could not remember committing. Morgana, furious as Merlin had ever seen her, and speaking… _fighting_ to keep someone dear from being sent away.

“It’s Gwen,” Merlin said. His voice sounded dull to his own ears. He couldn’t feel. Couldn’t fathom Gwen on a chopping block, or driven into the… oh god, the dregs of Albion. Arthur looked at him, and it was beyond sorrow, beyond shame, beyond everything. Merlin’s grip tightened.

The flutter stirred again. He had… had to know. Even if he thought he already did.

“Who has Gwen taken from you?” he asked, almost too softly.

Arthur answered his question without answering. Merlin saw the name in his face and locked in his eyes, felt it vibrating through the grip Arthur had on his hands.

 _“No,”_ Merlin breathed, suddenly out of air, an inch from Arthur, “no, she has not.”

Arthur’s lips parted, but Merlin needed to be heard, god, he needed— he leaned in, and Arthur pulled back, still hurting, but Merlin followed. Caught his mouth and held the two of them together. And kissed him.

Arthur’s breath burst from him as he broke from Merlin, and then he was all movement, grabbing Merlin anew and pulling him in, fumbling them back together with shaking hands. Merlin wrapped his fingers around Arthur’s and laced them together, pressing his thumb to Arthur’s wrist and stroking downward. He felt a cool brush against his cheek, one of Arthur’s tears, finally fallen. Merlin tilted his head and pulled Arthur in deeper, so deep he felt he could breathe the air inside him. His chest, his very heart stung; he was not ready for the ache, and he clenched his eyes shut against it. His muscles went tight, and Arthur tugged himself away.

“Merlin.” It was dejected. Merlin couldn’t stand hearing it. No more of this undeserved pain, not when he’d just been given the only gift he’d wanted for ages.

“Don’t do this,” he hissed into Arthur’s ear. He yanked him close, and Arthur’s body heat beat into him like the lively coals of a fire. It was heady and hazy, and he could smell Arthur on the air, all around him, pure and agonised and so refreshingly familiar. He carded through Arthur’s hair with both hands, weaving dishevelled strands into a soft tangle. “No more.”

A sound broke from Arthur, but Merlin was allowed no time to contemplate it. Arthur’s face was wet, salt tingling on Merlin’s lips as their mouths met again.

“You are so… so very…” Arthur breathed, his hands climbing over Merlin’s face and through his hair, the words broken by the press and touch of their mouths. “If you thought badly of me—”

“I don’t,” Merlin shushed him. He kissed Arthur hard, tasting for his tongue and shivering when he found it. “I don’t, Arthur.”

“I wanted it to be like before.” Arthur dropped his head, clutching tight to Merlin’s shoulders. “In the forest, I just wanted… to go back…”

Merlin pressed his lips to Arthur’s hair and cradled his head. To go back to them. The two of them, before everything went insane. Before Arthur was sick with misery and pushing Merlin away even in his need to get closer. Merlin’s eyes burned, just a little.

“I want you here,” Merlin whispered. “Now. Healthy.” _And happy, Arthur, I need you to be happy, or I can’t be._

Arthur’s shudders grew stronger, and Merlin brushed his cheeks dry. He brought the two of them together, took him in again. Arthur drew him gradually into his lap, as if dazed. The chair creaked under their combined weight. And the kiss was a long one, complete with steadily moving hands. Arthur’s fingers alit and settled at Merlin’s side, just under the hem of his tunic, a hot clutch that tightened with each slow brush of Arthur’s lips and tongue. Merlin shivered, curved his hand at Arthur’s nape, and drew him as close as he could.

It felt almost unreal. But he could smell Arthur, the leather and the misty outside air, the fresh scent of clean clothing and new sheets, all tangled together into one smell, one person. He knew that scent better than he’d realised, and he’d always been immersed in it, right from the day he’d stepped inside Camelot’s walls, but now… Now he had no idea how he’d lived without it actually clinging to his body, invading his nostrils and flooding his senses like sweet puffs of autumn smoke. Lingering on his lips and across his tongue.

He was so lost in it all that he was slow to react when Arthur pulled back yet again. The prince’s face was obscured by hanging fringe, and Merlin reached to touch the soft tendrils, sliding the pad of his finger over them.

“How can you even look at me?” Arthur muttered in the direction of their chests.

It was ludicrous, that question, until Merlin came back to himself, to them, and remembered. “I’ve always been able to look at you,” he answered, and leaned in, nosing at Arthur’s forehead, trying to get him to lift his head.

But Arthur only said, “Merlin, I’m not a fool. Gwen’s your best friend.”

Neither of them moved for several seconds while the weight of Arthur’s words echoed. Then Merlin drew Arthur’s hand up in his, tucked bent fingers against his cheek, and kissed Arthur’s thumb, then his palm. “Does this feel like someone who hates you?” he asked.

Arthur finally raised his eyes. They were hollow, cracked and struggling not to be. Merlin knew it was far from over. Arthur’s recovery from this blow, just as from the blow of a physical blade, would take time. Even when he was well enough again in body— as Merlin knew now that he hadn’t been for a long while— his mind would still try to turn this over and over, pick it apart and find the sharpest edges on which to cut his wounds back open.

Merlin was going to dull the knife in every way he knew how.

“Will you rest? For me.” He looked at Arthur steadily and saw him swallow.

“Will you stay?” Arthur countered.

Merlin squeezed his hand and felt Arthur return it. “I never planned on leaving.”

Arthur’s bed was large and comfortable, and smelled just like him. Arthur got out of his more constricting clothes, then settled back on the pillows in his untucked tunic and breeches. Merlin climbed in beside him, in constant contact with some part of Arthur, even though it was obvious Arthur was making no effort to force the issue. Merlin understood what Arthur deserved, though, and it wasn’t the loneliness that the other man felt was due. He situated them so the length of their bodies was one long line of warmth beneath the quilts. Arthur watched him silently, not even blinking. Merlin tucked himself against Arthur, one arm across his chest. He ran his hand soothingly up and down Arthur’s side, and then nuzzled the pale skin where Arthur’s throat curved down just below his jaw. Inhaled.

After a moment, Arthur turned his head just slightly, touching their faces together, and exhaled. It rushed gently over Merlin’s skin. He reached, found Arthur’s fingers, and entwined them again with his.

~fin~


End file.
